


Blood-red Ink

by Coldsaturn



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Post-Canon, Unresolved Romantic Tension, forget what you saw in s3 trailer, it's not exactly graphic but there's a battle scene, let's pretend that different clans speak the same language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldsaturn/pseuds/Coldsaturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months after leaving her people, Clarke finally reaches the Water Clan, hoping to find a new home or at least a passage on one of their ships. But the Heda of the clan has a better plan, and it requires a brooding curly-haired leader from Clarke's old clan, two contracts, a little show off for an arranged marriage, and a battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood-red Ink

**Author's Note:**

> Little dictionary help:  
> Heda - Head, Commander (it's funnier if you translate it with "Boss");  
> Hod op - Stop;  
> Skaikru - Sky people;  
> Stegeda - Village (when found with the name of the clan attached to it: Wadageda - Village of the Water Clan)  
> Wadakru - Water Clan;  
> Wanheda - Commander of Death;

The sun had just passed the edge of the high houses of the village, tracing a calculated route from the door of the wooden walls to the harbor, illuminating in its wake houses and stores neatly distributed along the luminous line the people of the village considered sacred, as it led the way to the sea that gave them life. Clarke had never seen anything like it. The Grounder villages she had seen until then were bare and prepared for war just like the people who inhabited them. Small and low houses often replaced the far more versatile tents, to transform the hearth in a strategic position for the battles always around the corner. Houses made of stone meant that you were in front of a clan strong enough that they didn't have to worry about losing their homes. And the wider the plot of the village, the stronger the control the clan had over the surrounding area.

But what Clarke had before her eyes still amazed her, even though seven days had passed since her arrival. The Water Clan, or Wadakru as they called themselves, had proved her last hope after two months spent running for her life. What should have been a lonely time to contemplate what the war had done to her had quickly become a race for survival, as voices from everywhere started to answer to her thoughts: Wanheda. Commander of Death. Appropriate, but meaningless to Clarke until the common solution seemed to be to kill her to remove the only assumed responsible party for all the deaths ever since the Skaikru had landed on Earth.

Scapegoat would have been a more accurate choice of words.

Wadakru was famous for being home to the brightest merchants and explorers of the area. They had a monopoly on the only usable ports along the rugged and unpractical eastern coast, and they sold all sorts of goods to those who had enough money to buy them. No one else knew how big the world which had survived the apocalypse was, no one else in the area had spent the last hundred years giving up the safety of a sedentary life and a stronger defense in favor of exploration and construction of a trading network.

Even the Mountain Men had left them alone, while still keeping an eye on them, because they knew that if one of their resources dried up the Water Clan was the only hope of survival. They were people who had defended themselves from the first attacks intent on stealing their materials with a simple counter of, “I can get you more if you pay me.” That had been enough to establish their power. Villages had sprung up along the few mouths of the rivers that went back to the heart of the continent; houses had borne the brunt of added floors to contain more material; ports had been protected by watchtowers. They didn't make war, they sold it to the highest bidder.

Clarke breathed the icy air of a cold winter blowing from the sea and found herself dropping her eyes back to the still closed gates of the village. A sudden rustle of wind made the door knockers slam against the opposite shutter, and Clarke's heart missed a beat. But the guards were still in their positions on each side of the gate, not wasting even the slightest attention to the creak of wood behind them, and it was clear that there were no visitors. Yet.

“Changed your mind?”

The voice of the Heda of the clan came from the entrance of the room that had kindly been offered to Clarke for the time it took her to decide if she really wanted to accept and become part of the community, or stand back and let herself be delivered straight to the same people who wanted her dead. She still didn't believe she was being given much choice, but it was hard not to show gratitude, considering the offer on the table if she accepted.

“No, but I'm not sure that they will go all the way,” Clarke said, betraying perhaps a glimmer of hope in her voice. She didn't want to involve her people, didn't want to make them pay the consequences of a war they had messily stumbled into. It was thanks to an ironic twist of fate that her finding a new home still depended on Clarke slipping a collar on her neck, and handing the leash to the Arkers.

“If they give up on the agreement, the better deal will be to sell you to the Ice Nation,” Heda said with a measured tone that Clarke had learned to identify with the young woman. The Grounder wasn't someone who easily inspired surprise or anger, every word uttered by her being precise and deliberate, the result of a calculation devoid of prejudices that one could easily find and follow. Clarke had the impression that being mad at Heda could only be a consequence of facing one's faults. Heda had nothing against Clarke, but the only way to convince her to let Clarke enter her clan — and maybe even to buy a place on one of the several ships that left the main harbour every week — had been to agree to give her something more interesting and substantial for her people than the bounty on Clarke’s head.

“I know,” Clarke said, finally turning her back to the window from which she was guarding the entrance gates and facing Heda. Not far from the Commander was the bag containing the few items that Clarke had accumulated along the months as a fugitive. It lay closed and not yet undone against three blankets, neatly folded and stacked on the bed, that had been offered to her to fight the cold of the night. A glimpse of the consideration Clarke would receive once she said yes. “Although I wish there was another way to repay the losses.”

“The only way to restore an entire destroyed village is to offer us another one completely intact, and I highly doubt you are able to get a hold of it alone.”

It was useless to deny the truth, so Clarke nodded, pursing her lips to stop the instinctive defense that she hadn’t had anything to do with their loss. Except that she did. It had become a nasty habit of hers, to sweeten her sins with good intentions. No one had ever gone anywhere with those. Heda’s calculations, those were firm and dependable, her actions clear and unapologetic.

“I have nothing without the support of my people. Only this name on my head.”

“Wanheda.” Heda's mouth bent around the word as though she was enjoying its potential. Weighing its price. “It bothers you to accept what you are.” She didn't say it as a question. Heda only had to read the furrowed lines on Clarke's forehead to know that she wanted nothing to do with that name.

“It’s not who I am,” Clarke answered, resolute. “I didn’t wish for anything that happened.”

“Yet those dead still call your name. And us with them.”

Clarke refused to satisfy the urge to look down under the weight of all those lives. Not while she had Heda watching her carefully. Many were those who had exploited the fallen to convey a message, to legitimize their cause, to persuade of the truth of their views. For Clarke those deaths were only deaths, and were to be remembered, and honored, and counted exactly for what they were. Losses.

Heda leant her shoulder against the door-frame, crossing her arms over her chest as if she was waiting for another answer that would allow her to twist the knife into Clarke’s grief again. From the moment Clarke had arrived in the clan, Heda had done nothing but, and it was unclear if it was a test or genuine interest in seeing Clarke huddle around the dense core of her faults. Maybe the point was that Clarke's wounds were all too visible to anyone with a pair of eyes, and refraining from pressing their finger over them was a temptation not everyone resisted.

A horn cut the silence that had fallen in the room, shifting Heda’s focus from Clarke to the window behind her. The second blare, shorter than the first, stopped Clarke’s heart. Clarke turned around in time to see the gates opening, and a stain of people in gray and black entering. The distance was just enough to make out their number — thirty, possibly a little more — but not to recognize their faces. As they came in, they left all their weapons at the foot of one of the guards who had gathered around the entrance, then, after a brief direction from the guard, they sauntered down the main street, heading toward the administrative center that marked the last five hundred steps before the main port.

As they approached, Clarke could glimpse their faces tilted upward in wonder as they took in the three storey high buildings, so similar to the cities they had studied in history books on the Ark. Only because she had felt it herself a few days before, Clarke recognized that in the angles of their wide open mouths there was also concern, because this was a necessity for their trade but also a display of wealth, and wealth you could maintain if you were stronger than the others, or smarter. Clarke knew by now which it was, she hoped that the others had understood it too.

“We should get to the Center, if we don't want to keep them waiting,” said Heda from the spot by the window next to her. Clarke hadn’t heard the Commander move and had to restrain the instinctive flinch of her shoulders.

Clarke exhaled shakily and, feeling her throat close to the irregular rhythm of her heart, decided to simply nod.

***

The last time she had seen Bellamy, they were just outside the gates of Camp Jaha, and Clarke was abandoning him. She had pondered it often in the following months, if one could really consider it an abandonment. Clarke did not dare believe that Bellamy had really needed her to the point of suffering her absence as a betrayal, but she had to admit that she had turned her back on him anyway. They could understand each other and give comfort like no one else could, because they had both been there, their eyes had looked at the same, gruesome scene. Yet Clarke had felt compelled to leave all the same. The revulsion of her whole body at the thought of having to look at the faces for whom she had stained her hands with blood had been so hard it had almost turned her stomach. Clarke couldn't have stayed even if she wanted, even if she understood.

The man who was now returning her gaze, less than ten feet away from her, was a harder Bellamy. Clarke tried to catalogue all the differences since the last time she had looked at him; his hair had been cut shorter; his shoulders taut and his back rigid where barely months before he had been still as exhausted, but softer; the lines on his face sunk deeper around a mouth that looked naturally made for a scowl. He looked tired and chilled by a bitter cold that possibly had nothing to do with winter. Clarke’s muscles tensed as she restrained herself from running to him and demanding to know what had happened, if the others were safe, what was worrying him so much. But Clarke knew better than to show Heda any emotion she could exploit. If everything went as the Commander had planned, Clarke would be able to ask those questions in private.

Heda cleared her throat and Bellamy focused on her. They were alone in the hall of the administrative center, and the only reason why Heda's voice hadn't echoed against the walls was that they were stuffed up to the ceiling with shelves full of paper files.

“I don't want to make us waste more time than necessary, especially after the long journey that you had to get here. Tell me your answer and you will be free to occupy the day as you see fit,” Heda said with a slight smile. Someone naïve could mistake it for kindness.

Bellamy swallowed and rolled his shoulders. “Your proposal was discussed by the Council, and it was accepted. The terms are the ones offered: part of the treasures in the City of Light and military aid in exchange for favorable prices for your materials, and an up to date map of the world.”

Clarke found herself staring at Bellamy's mouth as if he could go back on his words at any moment, undoing the reality that was now unrolling before her eyes.

“And concerning the guarantee of alliance,” Heda solicited, tilting her head to the side.

Bellamy replied without the slightest hint of hesitation or emotion, “I will consent to the marriage with the new member of your Clan.”

“Not yet an official member, we wanted to be sure that it would be worth it.” Heda’s smile was days away from them. Clarke could not move her tongue to swallow. She felt a hand rest on her shoulder, the fingers tightening around bones. “If you still agree, you can sign the papers to become part of our people.”

Clarke looked at Bellamy, waiting for any hint that would stop her from formalizing a desperate action of survival that was now about to become bigger than all of them. Bellamy kept his eyes fixed on Heda. Clarke nodded.

Heda gave her a pat on the back before reaching the table behind her, a wooden circle so jam-packed with sheets that the whisper of wind produced by her fur coat caused some of them to slide to the ground. Her eyes combed through the paper sea until they found what she was looking for, and she grabbed two parchments neatly rolled together and a finely worked stylus.

“This type of ceremony is held in front of everyone,” Heda said, pointing to the exit door with her hand.

Both Bellamy and Clarke turned to the door, and only then did Clarke notice the hum of voices in the background. There was the concrete possibility that the entire clan was gathered outside, together with Bellamy's men. Clarke's stomach tightened painfully, and she tried to take a deep breath as her life was going to take a turn, again, that she would have never expected. All the events of her life since they had landed on Earth were understandable, logical, consistently resulting from everything that was going on around them. Retracing memories was like following a trail of dominoes that had toppled to the ground. They made sense. What was waiting for her today was something completely unexpected, just like the shocking news that they were being sent to Earth had been. Heda had pushed this choice on her, as Jaha had done in the past. Somewhere there was a lesson about being a leader who thought outside the box, but Clarke was too busy stopping her fingers from trembling, and Bellamy was already walking with a firm step towards a future she still could not believe in.

At the foot of the steps of the administrative center the entire village really was gathered. The Arkers were not immediately distinguishable in the large crowd, but on closer inspection, Clarke could recognize a group of faces with expressions darker than the ones around them. Not necessarily hostile, but certainly more thoughtful about what was going on. They were looking around as if they expected a knife silently pressed against their side at any moment, as if the crowd was surrounding them for a different reason than the birth of a new alliance that would benefit both parties.

Clarke did not have time to stop and think about whether their fears were legitimate, because Heda approached her with a scroll resting on a wooden board. In her other hand was the stylus.

“With this signature,” Heda announced loudly, “Clarke of Skaikru becomes Klark kom Wadakru. This contract is sacred and indissoluble unless the whole clan, I or my successor, and you, all unanimously agree to terminate it. May the wanderer people of the Wadakru give you as much as you will give them.”

Heda held out the stylus, and Clarke pushed against the resistance of her muscles to grasp it. The buzz had died down without needing to be prompted, and the sun lightened the metallic ink on the paper to the point of making the letters almost illegible. Clarke knew what they were saying anyway, Heda had given her three days to read the contract and decide if she still wanted to accept it or not. It seemed ironic that Heda had even expected a no when the alternative was to be sold to the enemies that had been hunting Clarke down for months.

One step forward, and Clarke raised the stylus to the sheet. From behind Heda, Clarke felt the weight of Bellamy's gaze and she looked at him for a moment, stopping inches from the paper. His mouth had two distinctive commas at the angles of his downturned lips, and the sun wasn't hitting him directly enough to motivate the line between his eyebrows. Bellamy, jaw clenched, looked away, and Clarke signed.

Heda gave the contract to one of her counselors, who had readily reached them from the crowd, and took the stylus from Clarke's unresisting hand. Baring her right wrist, Heda pressed the sharp tip on her skin and carefully let the ink run down, signing her own name on Clarke's skin. The ink froze instantly against the chilly air, and Clarke looked down at the black letters. Heda's name was Kadlin.

“Welcome among us,” Heda said, for the first time letting a bit of warmth in her tone. She pulled Clarke's arm up, showing the mark to everyone, and the whole clan rejoiced.

The sound of cheers drowned the silence of a particular group of people in the middle of the celebrating crowd that were perfectly still, glaring at Clarke as if they had lost something and it was her fault. The most deafening part of that void came from her right, where Bellamy stood staring at an indefinite point in front of him. Clarke wanted to ask him why he had accepted if he hated it so much.

Heda got a hold of the second parchment and another stylus, then motioned for Bellamy to come closer. Still focused elsewhere, Bellamy must have noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, because he didn't make Heda waste her breath to call him, and walked to them. This was possibly the most inconceivable part of all, even more than Heda's name written on Clarke's wrist, even more than the clan of perfect strangers that now were addressing her with a welcoming smile, after she had been treated with total indifference for the past week. Now Clarke was one of them, not an Arker anymore, and yet the most shocking part was yet to come.

Heda stepped back, standing between Bellamy and Clarke, the new contract placed on the board in beautiful gold letters inclined toward the sun and the rest of the village. Heda's fingers were keeping the new stylus and the paper from slipping on the ground.

“This contract binds as officially married a member of our community, Klark, and a leader of the Skaikru, Bellamy. Their union will allow our people to acquire new brothers and sisters, to have a new home in times of need, a friend's arm in times of war, one more smile in times of wealth, and a supporting shoulder in times of poverty. The contract is indissoluble unless the two spouses, the two clans, and their respective leaders unanimously agree to terminate it.”

Bellamy was the first to move, taking the stylus and signing on the sheet with a curt movement of his hand. The ink was a deep red that Clarke couldn't mistake for anything else but blood. Bellamy was moving to give the stylus back to Heda, but she shook her head.

“You have to sign on her left wrist.”

Bellamy said nothing, but kept his eyes on the goal and seized Clarke's wrist, pushing her sleeve upward. His fingers left imprints on her skin, making Clarke all too aware of the blood rushing through her veins. Another quick gesture, and Clarke had Bellamy's name on her skin in blood red ink. This looked definitive. This looked fatal.

“Now Klark,” Heda said, when it was clear that neither of them was moving from their position. Bellamy pushed her wrist away as if it had scorched him, and Clarke focused on taking the stylus from him without ever lifting her eyes.

Clarke signed her part of the contract and approached Bellamy on autopilot. He bared his own wrist, saving both of them from a longer touch than what was necessary. _Why did you say yes_ , echoed again in Clarke's mind, and it was so loud and so compelling that for a moment she worried she was writing ‘Why’ instead of her name. But she wasn't supposed to write her name either, only its translation in Trigedasleng. It took more time than it did Bellamy, even if his name was longer.

As soon as Clarke was done, Bellamy quickly pulled down his sleeve without waiting for the ink to dry. Clarke had only a moment to see her signature turning into a shapeless stain against the fabric, before Heda's voice announced that from then on their marriage was valid, and that celebrations could begin.

***

Clarke found him again a few hours later at the top of the steps of one of the warehouses facing the sea. If one was tall enough, they could peek over the wall line to the sea just beyond. Clarke had to use a chair to make it days before, but she knew that at that time of day the view was worth the effort. The sun was approaching its set at the horizon and it was already lower than the edge of the tall houses and trees outside the walls, orange giving ground to the blue and the stars. Soon, it would get a lot colder.

Clarke approached Bellamy cautiously, and the sound of her footsteps was enough to darken his expression that just a moment ago had been only thoughtful.

"Hey," Clarke said, quietly.

“ _Klark_ ,” spat out Bellamy, clenching his teeth enough to show the contracting muscle of his jaw.

Hearing her new name with Bellamy's timbre caused Clarke's muscles to stiffen in an instant. Goosebumps started slipping down her neck together with a draft of wind. It was all wrong. Bellamy was not supposed to refuse to look into her eyes, to feel disgust when he called her. This couldn't be their reunion after two months of hell spent cursing and blessing the decision to leave. Clarke had imagined what it would have been like to go back to her people countless times, and countless times she had run away from the stab of pain and self-disgust as soon as their faces overlapped with others, innocent, lifeless. Bellamy was the only one that gave her a sense of longing, a twist of guilt for severing a bond they had both needed. Clarke had fallen asleep countless times imagining Bellamy calling out her name when he saw her emerging from the woods around Camp Jaha.

 _Klark_.

“There's no reason for you to call me that,” Clarke said, trying not to make it sound like a request.

If Bellamy heard it as such, he decided to ignore it. “There's no reason for me to call you any other way.”

“Bellamy, I'm still the sa—”

“Don't even start,” Bellamy interrupted her, ceding to look at her, and Clarke took an instinctive step back. “I don't know what you are but you're not that Clarke.” And then it was as if Clarke had pushed him down a mountain, and Bellamy began to slide faster and faster. “What kind of sick joke is this? You abandon us for two months, not a word, not a sign that you're alive somewhere out there, your mother nearly collapsed from anxiety, they’re all feeling like shit because they feel responsible for not giving you enough support, for making you feel alone, and what's the first news from you? That you used us like a bargaining chip to join a Grounder clan and you need one of us as a husband to formalize the deal?!”

Bellamy had just managed to hold back from screaming, but Clarke didn't show the same restraint. “Why did you say yes then?” She demanded, shaking her head, unable to stop on a single emotion long enough as to make sense of what was around her. Every time Clarke had fallen asleep thinking about Bellamy calling her from inside the gates of their camp, she had woken up drenched in sweat with his irate screams still ringing in her ears. Clarke had already seen all this, and despite everything it still hurt, and despite everything she still didn't want to believe it.

“The Council voted, and those against were in the minority.” There was no need to ask which side Bellamy had chosen. As though he had guessed the next question, Bellamy continued, “I'm the most experienced male member regarding the Grounders, so they chose me.”

Clarke nodded, although Bellamy had already looked away, pretending that she wasn't there. “This wasn't how I wanted things to go. I was forced to accept their offer because I had nowhere else to go.”

“You did. You could have come back to us. You could have come home, you could have—” Bellamy sighed, “Never mind, it doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me, Bellamy.” Clarke stepped forward, hand stretched out as if to calm a wild animal, “They're all after me, I would never come back just to paint a big red X over the entire camp. I was looking for a way to get a ride on one of their ships, but Heda found the idea of collecting the bounty on my head more interesting. It was one of her counselors that told her a group of our people had left for the City of Light. They heard news that they made it.”

Bellamy exhaled a white cloud of breath and stuffed his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. He frowned, quickly checking around them for prying ears before turning back to Clarke, “That is a part of the contract we're still betting on. We know nothing of Jaha and the others. Kane is interested in Heda's maps, not mentioning the promise of an alliance with someone less moody than the Grounders we've met so far.”

“If Heda has received word from one of the merchants she has around in the desert, we can believe her. She doesn't take useless risks with her business; if she has made the offer it means that Jaha and the others have made it.”

“Why not send her men then? And Jaha hasn't contacted us. We'll have to go after him and warn him about the new developments.”

Clarke rubbed her hands against the fur coat, hoping to warm them up even a little. “From what I understand, the only power this clan has is contractual, they don't have strong defences, and to send men without the certainty that they'll return alive is a loss she cannot afford right now.”

“So why did you choose them, instead of looking for someone who could protect you better from your enemies?” Bellamy's voice seemed to rot on the word 'protect', and Clarke felt colder than she already did.

“I have a debt with them,” Clarke replied, reluctant to confess yet another part of the weight on her shoulders, but Bellamy was still staring at her and words came out before she could stop them, before she could convince herself that she didn't want to crack open in front of him in hope for forgiveness. “I caused the destruction of one of their villages, and offering this alliance was the only way to help them that I had.”

“What do you mean you caused the destruction of their village?” Bellamy asked, and it seemed as though he was struggling with finding a fixed position between them just as she was; whether to be angry with her and cut the conversation, to feel betrayed and vent the pain repressed for months, or to slip into the usual ease with which they found solutions together.

Whatever it was, they were still talking, and that was all that mattered to Clarke. “They had made a pact with Anya, that she would help them against the Mines Clan that had been making incursions into their territories for years, and in return they would have given weapon and resources to Anya at a preferential price. But then we landed, and we busied Anya on another front, Anya herself was captured, and then she died, and Lexa wasn't interested in maintaining the agreement. She had other needs. They lost an important lookout village along the river, during the following raid.”

Bellamy was silent for a few seconds, and then scoffed, shaking his head. His mouth curled into a smile that didn't reach even half of his face. Clarke waited, not understanding why he was laughing as if he couldn't believe what had just come out of her mouth. She was explaining the reason for every single step she had made, there would be no more room for misunderstandings.

“Unbelievable. How is it possible that everything, _everything_ , must always be about you?” Bellamy carded a hand through his hair, and he looked too exhausted for what was supposed to be a pacifying conversation. “When will you wake up and realize that you are not the holy martyr of the Arkers? That it's not always your fault? The only reason why you keep on trampling over anyone in your path is simply because you don't want to accept that you're not the fucking sun of this galaxy. Nothing is ever more important than you, isn't it?”

“What are you talking about, of course I'm not—”

“Has it ever occurred to you that all those decisions weren't yours alone? WE started this war with the Grounders, WE got kidnapped by the Mountain Men together with the Grounders, WE changed the power alliances when we landed on this goddamn Earth, and WE pulled that fucking lever!” Bellamy took two steps back, turned his back on Clarke and crossed his arms behind his head. He drew a deep breath and dropped his arms to his sides, speaking to the growing darkness in front of him. “You're not protecting us, you're just erasing our importance in those facts where you elected yourself the only protagonist. What we did hurt us as well, and it's eating us alive one nightmare at a time, but you can't believe it because you feel the martyr fallen from the sky.”

Bellamy hadn't yet made two steps in the opposite direction when an official reached them from the darkness behind Clarke, and told them that Heda had called for them both.

***

Clarke shouldn't have been surprised that a couple of signatures wouldn't have satisfied Heda till the indefinite date when the treasures of the City Of Light would be welcomed within her walls.

When Bellamy and Clarke had opened the doors of the administrative center, both careful not to show that they had spent the last hour arguing instead of cementing their marriage, Heda was studying a map of their area engraved on the wood of the round table, now pushed in the middle of the room; torches making night and day now in this patch of forest, now over that river, based on where the flicker of the flames struck. All the papers and scrolls had been massed at the foot of one of the libraries.

“Tomorrow morning we will be attacked, I need you both to organize a defensive plan,” Heda had said with a smile, and Clarke and Bellamy had spent the rest of the evening getting familiar with a territory they had never seen, and with enemies they had never heard of.

“The Mines Clan is our direct rival in the weapons trade. They manufacture faster, but the ones we import are of finer quality,” Heda quickly summed up, and then described in surprising detail the combat style the enemy used to lay siege and raid.

The Mines Clan's goal the next day was to take control of one of the mouths of the major rivers that cut the forest near the mines, and where Heda had a little village for the materials that then would be shipped deeper into the continent. The enemy would create a diversion by pushing an attack on the main village, so as to bring Heda to sacrifice the smaller village to defend the administrative heart.

Heda had played with the flames of the torches as she told Clarke and Bellamy that the attack would come at the end of their celebrations for the wedding and the new alliance, before Bellamy could call reinforcements, before anyone could get over their hangover. Heda had looked at them straight in the eyes and said, “Troy is ancient history, they should know better by now. The leader's wife is my spy, I know how many people they will send.”

And so, at dawn, Clarke was blowing hot breath over her hands from one of the tallest buildings of the little village near the river, a three-storey tall warehouse with a tactical balcony that overlooked the black forest. With her were six other archers, while more were already in place on the twin building next door. Their ammunition was simple arrows, plus a whole load of fabrics and moonshine that Heda had assured them they could afford to lose if they were successful in defending the village.

Further down was a handful of the most skilled fighters in close combat, their mission to defend the gate of the village while the cavalry was out with Bellamy and the Arkers he had brought as security, not too happy to find themselves in the midst of a battle that wasn't theirs, and without their guns. Those were to be used by Heda to defend the main village, in return for her best men that now were taking position around Clarke.

It was the first time they would fight without being directly attacked first, and Clarke tried to distract herself from the instinctive clench of her stomach at the thought. Although Clarke hadn't talked with Bellamy about their discussion, busy as they were with the preparations and then the short trip to the village that would soon become a battlefield, Clarke could still hear Bellamy's voice break and pour out all the disappointment and anger that had accumulated for months. Clarke licked her lips out of habit to distract from the tension that was stiffening her legs, but she regretted it soon after when the morning air froze her mouth. Clarke checked her belt with her sword attached to one of the loops, ensuring that all ties were tightly closed, then turned her attention on the bow on the ground, testing the strength of the rope and the mobility she would have around her once the others were all in position.

Clarke could see the movement of the horses, just barely hidden by the branches of the trees not far away from the village. For a moment Clarke had the feeling she was being watched, but from this distance it was impossible even to presume it. And Bellamy was probably busy organizing their strategy with the Commander of Wadakru. It didn't matter. Clarke counted the bottles available to the warriors, then the darts available to archers. The wooden floor behind her creaked under the weight of the other archers taking position.

At Clarke's third breath, a cry from the forest in front of them froze their movements, and then it was hell.

A black wave broke away from the trees, arms raised, brandishing swords and spears, running impetuously towards the walls of the village, and the first cloud of arrows covered, for a split second, the sun, which was just waking up from the horizon. Clarke called out to take cover and they all raised their shields to conceal their vital organs. The arrows struck with an almost simultaneously beat against the first floor of their building. They were measuring the distance needed to hit the target, and the next wave would hit closer.

Clarke left the shield hanging on her left shoulder, ready to be pulled in front of her if necessary, then took an arrow from the quiver tied to her back, and pulled at the bowstring.

“Load!” She yelled at the archers beside her.

Both squads loaded their bows, pointing upward to widen their range to the rear of the enemies, avoiding the charge of the first lines that was now reaching the middle of the open field separating the village from the forest. The archers with crossbows at ground level would take care of them from behind the walls. A quick glance down from the balcony reassured Clarke that the archers were already lighting up their darts. They had three barrels of oil and resin. That would have to suffice.

Looking back at the approaching black mass, Clarke closed one eye to aim. A random head among those who were screaming their bloodlust.

“Fire!”

There was the whistling sound of the bows shooting at the same time, and then the arrows were flying. Right after them, aiming at the first line of warriors, the crossbows released their incendiary darts. Screams added other screams as targets were hit. There was no time to check the extent of the damage they had caused, because another wave of arrows was already high in the sky, and this time the height was right. Clarke yelled to the others to take cover, and she pulled the shield in front of her just in time for an arrow to hit the steely exterior, sending a shock up her arm with the force of it. Her legs were being protected by the wooden balcony, as a few arrows were already getting stuck into the wood, the metal tip of the darts sticking out on the inner side of the barrier to threaten Clarke with what they could do against the weaker resistance of her skin.

One of the archers on the other building swore loudly when an arrow hit him on his left arm. He broke the wooden body and braced his bow as if nothing had happened. He made it look like it didn't hurt at all. Another was not as lucky and stopped the arrow with one eye; she fell to the ground like a dead weight, and the archer next to her leaned closer to pull the quiver off her back. The arrows continued to rain around them for what seemed like ages. A particularly well aimed shot brushed Clarke’s arm, blood quickly filling the cut and overflowing in thin lines down her skin. It was in that moment that Clarke accepted she could really die, there on the terrace of a warehouse, fighting for a clan that she didn't feel part of.

“Load!” Clarke screamed again, aiming lower now that the mass of the enemy was totally out of the forest. Heda had not been wrong with the numbers, Clarke was certain that if she had counted them one by one, she would have confirmed that the enemies were five hundred eighty-seven. They, on the other hand, were two hundred and thirteen. Plus thirty-seven Arkers hidden in the forest, waiting for the right moment. “Fire!”

The second attack was double, and Clarke quickly nocked another arrow, aiming more to the left instead of just ahead. While the crossbowmen set on fire the first line of enemies again, the oblique arrows aimed at the side less protected by armor. The blaze of the fallen on the battlefield began to catch on the ground, raising smoke trails where it was developing a small fire. The air was rapidly becoming unbearable, and Clarke blinked against the sting of her eyes. They would wait for a gust of wind, or they would have to make do this way.

One of the towers of smoke spread enough to cover the view of the warehouse next to Clarke almost completely, and Clarke gave the command to shoot obliquely, predicting that from the field it would be harder to aim precisely through the smoke screen. The order in Trigedasleng to attack barely surpassed the agonizing cries of the enemies that were burning alive one centimeter at a time. Clarke bent down abruptly, raising her shield above her head, and shouted downstairs to light up the field. She just had to hope they had gotten rid of a hundred of them with two batteries of attacks.

It was a winter morning but for a moment Clarke had the illusion it was spring, when the men below her lit the Molotov bombs and the flames sent a gush of hot air upwards. After a short count they took aim and threw them over the walls of the village. The flames swirled in the air and smashed against the incoming arrows. Some bottles exploded in the air, drenching in burning oil whoever was under it, while the others shattered on the ground, setting fire to everything they found on their path. Clarke stayed hunched down while the arrows found her shield to stop their run. The layer of wood that protected their legs was starting to give in under the insistent attacks, and soon it would have no use anymore. An archer next to her gurgled when an arrow hit him in his ear as he had turned to take another arrow, and he fell down with a dull thud, his eyes opened wide in permanent shock.

Picking up another arrow, Clarke aimed at one of the enemies that was getting too close to the walls, and stopped him with a strike in the throat. “Clean the lines!” Clarke shouted, swallowing against the urge to cough out the smoke she was inhaling. Archers began to shoot a continuous battery against the center of the opponent army while the crossbowmen cleaned up the front lines, and the men at the gates threw another series of Molotov over the walls to create a line of fire that would cut the army in half. The smoke was getting thicker, and the slanting rays of the sun weren't helping to clarify the images behind the cries deafening Clarke's ears. Anything could be going on down there, and Clarke wouldn't have been able to see it.

Keeping her breath as controlled as possible and pulling the collar of the sweater over her mouth, Clarke focused on shooting as many arrows as possible before the second phase of the attack could begin. At that point everything would really start and end.

Even with the smoke and the crackling of the flames blocking the view and muffling the sounds of the battle beyond the walls of the village, the moment the cavalry of the Wadakru charged into the field was clearly recognizable by the sudden roar from their left, a part of the camp that until then had remained mostly empty of action. The ground began to vibrate under the hooves of the horses, and Clarke tried in vain to look for their reinforcements through the gray and thick fog, colored only by red, hot bubbles when the flames momentarily choked their own smoke.

“Hit only what you see!” She ordered, pulling the bowstring toward the door of the village, knowing that it was her best bet to see an enemy, rather than risking hitting a comrade in the battlefield.

When the cavalry collided with the army, the clash of swords cut the hoarse and until then continuous sound of the flames, and the screams took the form of grunts, now that the battle was full contact. The horses whinnied, agitated, in the middle of the pit, or possibly injured to the point of losing their knight on the ground, at the mercy of enemies surrounding them. If only Clarke could see what was happening.

Finally, the wind started to blow transversely, and the columns of smoke curled with exhausting slowness, swelling as if they were diluting in air. Clarke smiled, pulled down the collar of her sweater and shouted, “Fire as soon as you have visibility!”

The archers around Clarke positioned themselves more firmly, correcting their posture, squinting their eyes to focus on the target to hit. Soon as the head of an enemy was visible through the smoke, two arrows flew toward him, and he was already dead when he fell to the ground. Four other enemies who were heading for the village's walls were targeted by the arrows. One was able to protect himself with his shield, but a crossbowman promptly set fire to his leg, firing through a slit in the wood created by an enemy arrow.

When the smoke thinned out enough, Clarke had an overview of the field. The fire was still cutting the enemy lines in half, a jagged line of dry grass and dead bodies still in flames. The dead bodies scattered around exceeded two hundred, and the cavalry of Wadakru was fighting with the farthest half of the army, while the one closest to their village was advancing slowly in a tight formation, using their shields to protect all sides under the incessant blows of the arrows and darts. Clarke shot an arrow that went bouncing against one of the shields, and she swore. If they didn't stop them they would find themselves in a full contact fight while significantly smaller in number.

Clarke cast her eyes on one of the barrels of oil. It was almost time for the third phase, and she couldn't risk getting in the way by spreading more fire than there already was in the field. Clarke quickly calculated how much time they had, and how many enemies might be approaching, then she ordered one of the warriors on the ground floor to create a pool of oil in front of the door, and to prepare a second bucket of it for later use. Clarke called the first crossbowman she remembered the name of, and the dark woman understood immediately, preparing a lit dart and loading it on the crossbow.

This time without yelling announcing them, the hooves of the running horses beat a different rhythm from the battle that was still taking place in the rear, and a few meters from where the cavalry of the Wadakru had come appeared the Arkers led by Bellamy. Clarke’s bow creaked under the grip of her fingers, and she forced herself to watch the door.

When horses clashed against the shields of the enemies closest to the village, the sound resembled that of bones cracking, and Clarke could not even begin to imagine that this was what was going on. Amid the screams of the enemies throwing orders to regroup in another formation, Bellamy’s booming voice charged the Arkers to attack, and then it was only metal colliding against metal. Clarke stretched taut the bow toward the door, expecting it to burst open at any moment, but she had to lower the weapon because her right hand was waving up and down following the racing pulse of her heart. Clarke opened and closed her hand, taking deep breaths to try to slow down its pace, and when she stretched the bow again, this time she held her breath.

As if on cue the door burst open and enemies that had got away from the battle with Bellamy's men poured in. Clarke killed the first who stepped over the threshold, and during the instant it took for some of the men to see where the arrow had come from, they were inundated with a bucket of oil. Tris, crossbow in hand, lit the puddle at their feet. If Clarke had any say in this, she had had enough of men on fire for a lifetime, but at the moment she simply remembered to pull the collar over her nose again and breathe through her mouth, so she wouldn't be as conscious of the nauseating smell of hair and flesh burning. Trusting the warriors downstairs, Clarke returned to check on the battlefield.

The dark and curly head of Bellamy was easy to find despite the fray, and Clarke took another arrow, shooting it to one of the most isolated enemies heading for the door of the village. Bellamy broke free of the warrior he was fighting by dodging a blow to the side and, turning on his heels to give himself momentum with his sword, cutting the enemy's chest from their collarbone to the opposite hip. Another enemy immediately took their place and Bellamy bent down just in time for the sword to pass over his head. Bellamy pushed his foot out and kicked the back of the warrior’s knee, taking advantage of their fall to shove the sword in their side, then promptly rolled off to avoid a spear which stuck in the ground where his head was just moments before.

Clarke had a clear line to the head of the Grounder in metal armor that was walking towards Bellamy, and she stretched her bow. An unknown voice behind her ordered, “Hod op!” But there was no way for Clarke to still her hand even if she had wanted to. Clarke shot the arrow, and when the pain exploded in her side, taking away her breath, she looked down at the blood stain widening on her coat before black filled her vision and she lost consciousness.

***

Clarke slowly opened her eyes, and forcing them to clear the heavy fog of unconsciousness drained her of all the energy she had. She exhaled forcefully, a stab in her side cutting off her breath. Finally her eyes put the wooden ceiling in sharp focus, and in a violent rush Clarke was again in the midst of swords penetrating flesh, fire crackling as it burned bones and organs, the acrid smell of burnt hair, dried blood, oil spilled on grass. Clarke turned her head sharply, trying to move her arms to sit up, but hands pushed her back down.

Clarke gasped, her heart pounding from the effort that it had cost her to move, the pain that was making her eyes water, the horror of losing the war and being the only one alive when everyone else was already dead. “Be-,” her voice scratched against a dry throat, and she coughed before trying again with more effort, “Bellamy.”

“Oh not you too, just calm down before—”

What sounded like Heda’s voice got drowned by the ruckus outside, of people fighting and a deeper voice urging them to let him go before he dismantled the place. Clarke looked up to find Heda closing her eyes and passing a hand over her face. When she realized Clarke was looking at her, she sighed. “Well, at least I can be sure that your bond is strong and I don’t have to worry about you wanting to break the alliance because you’re fed up with him. Tell your husband that next time he starts a brawl I’ll have his dick chopped off.”

Wood smashed against a wall and feet stomped toward the closed door of the room they were in. Heda’s eyes lost several degrees of warmth and Clarke felt as strongly as the goosebumps rising on her arms that the Commander was the one who was getting fed up really quickly with whatever was going outside, and that didn’t fare well for anyone. Seconds later the door burst open, and Heda stood up, shaking her head as she nimbly dodged a heavily panting Bellamy, and closed the door behind her as she got out.

Bellamy stood still against the wall, apparently busy with calming his breathing. Clarke examined his face covered in bruises and cuts; his right cheek turned violet from what was possibly an almost well-aimed punch; his left arm kept bent toward his chest by a cloth tied behind his neck. She swallowed the lump in her throat and croaked out a weak, “You’re hurt.”

Bellamy’s expression went from tired to murderous in the time it took Clarke to blink her eyelids, and he pushed himself off the wall, muttering as he stomped toward her, “You tell me.”

The closer he got, the more Clarke was able to count the bruises on his skin. Clarke vowed to herself to never get him on a battlefield again, there were only so many times she could avoid a heart attack. Bellamy sat heavily on the floor next to her, and Clarke turned her head until she felt the faint pain from her left side blocking her movement. She stood still then, and Bellamy moved a bit farther, so she could look at him without turning her neck to the point of pain. The bed wasn’t too high, so even with Bellamy seated on the floor, Clarke could see most of his bandaged arm.

“What happened?” Clarke asked in the end, allowing herself the question now that she had seen Bellamy was fine.

Bellamy stared at her for several seconds with an expression that Clarke could not read, then cleared his throat and looked away. “We won the battle. It would have lasted longer, but you killed the General with your last shot. At that point they sounded the retreat. Here in Wadageda the weapons they had taken from us did their job.” Then he closed his eyes. “You had a Grounder behind you, and he threw a dagger while you were shooting the last arrow. The battle was over soon after, so we were able to help you immediately.”

Listening, Clarke tried to remember the last moments before the darkness completely took over, but whatever had happened after the enemies had broken through the gate of the village was confused and hazy.

“I can’t remember,” Clarke admitted, a little disappointed. For some reason it seemed important to know what had happened during those last moments, but try as she might the only thing she obtained was a headache. Clarke sighed, shaking her head slightly. “What happened to your arm?”

“When you killed the General he fell on me with all his armor. He was heavy, and I wasn’t prepared.”

Clarke snorted instinctively, and when Bellamy glared at her she laughed, only to regret it later when the wound decided to take revenge on her. “Well, I'm glad you're okay,” Clarke said after she had caught her breath again, contented by the heat that was spreading through her. Then Heda’s words came back to her, and she frowned, confused. “Heda said that next time you start a brawl, she’ll cut off your dick.”

Bellamy scoffed and muttered, “Next time she’ll know better than to keep me away.”

It didn’t sound like something he had intended Clarke to hear, so she let her gaze wander, absorbing all the details of the room around Bellamy, and something caught her attention on the window on the far side of the room. “Bellamy, is that snow?”

Bellamy turned to look at the heavy curtain that was waving to the December wind, and when it moved enough, there were little white dots floating in the air. “It started shortly after lunch and it hasn't stopped yet,” he said simply. “If it continues like this it will be a rough trip back home.”

Somewhere close to Clarke’s wound sent a cramp, and Clarke moaned in pain, closing her eyes. Bellamy went on his knees immediately, hovering over her and lifting the blankets, possibly to check for blood, possibly to freeze her to death.

“Ugh, cold!” she complained, grabbing the covers and pressing them down against her chest. Bellamy didn’t say anything else, but apparently reassured that there wasn’t fresh blood on her clothes, sat down on the floor again with his back against the bed, his head leant against the mattress.

Clarke started counting his curls. Once she reached ten, she looked at the window again. “Hey, does this mean we’ll get a white Christmas?”

“Christmas was the day I arrived here,” answered Bellamy.

Flashes of the day went through Clarke’s mind, and it was possibly one of the worst Christmases Bellamy had ever had. The pang cut her breath again, but she managed to stay silent this time and she clutched the fur with her fist until the pain subsided again. When she forcibly released the covers, clean skin greeted her where a red name should have been. They must have washed it away when they took care of her wounds. Looking at Bellamy, she tried to see if he still had the red stain on his left wrist, but it was impossible to see from where she was. In the end she gave up and let her head fall back on the pillow.

“Quit moving around.”

“Sorry,” Clarke blurted out, and it was only once she had already opened her mouth to say it that she realized just how broken her voice sounded. She didn’t know how many things she was apologizing for, but trying to think about them would possibly push a worrying amount of water out of her eyes, so Clarke breathed deeply until she felt she had her emotions under control again.

Bellamy stayed silent for several minutes after that, staring at the snow falling down from the cracks of night the curtain showed, then finally said, “Don’t worry about it. And even if it's late, merry Christmas, Clarke.”

A single tear rolled down Clarke’s temple and into her hair, and she smiled. “Merry Christmas, Bellamy.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Trivia: for a while I debated whether to call the Mines Clan "Staukru", arbitrarily deciding that Trigedasleng for "Stone" would become "Staun", and ultimately "Stau". Then I told myself to stop fucking around and left it like that.
> 
> This was truly a monster to edit and [Zoadgo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo) is literally a goddess for fixing it in record time. I don't know where I (or any of my stories) would be without you <3  
> Credit to my [book soulmate :^](http://everythingthatmatters.tumblr.com) for noticing what I couldn't anymore. You're a gem. 
> 
> Special thanks to my assigned partner in this secret santa event. It was incredibly fun, and I hope the poor soul that will receive this as a gift will be satisfied *anxiety intensifies*  
> Merry Christmas anyway *w*  
> This story may or may not have a part 2, depending on how it's received. 
> 
> Thanks to anyone who will read it, comment it, _kudos it_ , ignore it etc.  
> 


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